


The Most Beautiful Sin

by seamusdeanforever_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-29
Updated: 2015-10-29
Packaged: 2018-04-28 19:11:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5102450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seamusdeanforever_archivist/pseuds/seamusdeanforever_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>By Nimue1540</p><p>Their first Christmas after Hogwarts, Dean and Seamus go to visit Dean's family for the holidays. Things are awkward, and the pain of disapproval makes Dean lose hope that things will ever get better. But sometimes acceptance comes in the form of an unexpected gift.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Most Beautiful Sin

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Cora: this story was originally archived at [Seamus/Dean Forever](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Seamus/Dean_Forever), which I opened in 2002, and which was closed in 2005 when the server that hosted it was closed. To re-open the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in September 2015. An announcement was posted to OTW media channels, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact me using the e-mail address on the [Seamus/Dean Forever archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/seamusdeanforever/profile).
> 
> ***
> 
> DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
> 
> Author's Note: Immediately after reading Comfort and Joy, by Jim Grimsley, I felt inspired to write this story. For those of you who have read the book, I'm sure the similar themes will be obvious. This little story has a lot of meaning for me, because sometimes it's so easy to get lost in the darker parts of life, and I needed to believe that there was hope for something better. I guess, in a way, Mr. Grimsley's novel helped to remind me of something I'd forgotten; an old motto of mine. So, this fic goes out to everyone who's had to make the impossible choice between family and love; no matter how hard it is, don't ever give up on hope.

_"... To save us all from Satan's call when we are gone astray, Oh tidings of comfort and joy..."_

The sounds of the choir resonated through the church and out to the cold, snow covered street beyond. Winter always gave London a sense of peace and solemnity that it didn't seem to possess any other time of the year. Trapezoids of colour made geometric patterns against the blue snow beneath the church's stained glass windows. The tall, white building with its heavy oak doors and wooden cross perched atop a pointed steeple, evoked memories of a childhood he had long ago buried beneath the years spent away from this world.

The dark sky was thick with dots of silver stars and white snowflakes, swirling all together so that it became impossible to tell one from another. He tried to pick them apart, to sort one fleck of white into a different place in his mind, but they remained stubbornly similar--impossibly different in nature, but identical to the naked eye. There was the loud crunch of footsteps behind him, signalling another's presence. He felt a warm hand settle on his shoulder and let his eyes wander over to the pale, familiar round face of the man beside him, who was studying him with curious blue eyes through the dark half light of the city.

"Are we gonna go in?" the other man asked in a thick Irish accent. For a moment he allowed himself to ignore the question and listened only to the musical lilt of that voice, so different from his own deep baritone. "Or were you planning on standing out here in the cold all night?"

Dean Thomas drew in a deep, steadying breath and eyed the church as if it were an adversary. He nodded resolutely, courage a brittle veneer to protect him from what lay within that building. "Let's go. It's time we got this over with."

Seamus nodded and removed his hand, keeping a respectable distance between them as they followed the sidewalk up to the front steps of the church. As they ascended and those large oak doors grew closer, Dean felt a surge of panic grip his heart. His hand shook where it rested on the doorknob, and he hesitated.

A warm hand, smaller than his, covered his own, Dean's dark skin a strange contrast to the paleness of Seamus'. Seamus' voice was in his ear, a quiet whisper meant only for him, and he felt the fear dissipate beneath the security of those familiar tones. "Don't worry Dean. We'll get through this together."

Dean closed his fingers around the knob and pulled the door open. People stood, separated by wooden pews, filling the church with a warm, bright presence. A tall black man at the door smiled broadly at Dean and patted his shoulder in a welcoming gesture. He was a few inches taller than Dean, who was by no means short, and built larger as well, with strong arms and broad shoulders.

"Merry Christmas, Dean," the man said, and Dean smiled back at him.

"Merry Christmas, John."

John gestured to a pew where a family, obviously the Thomases, stood, singing along to the carol, the words to which were written in an unnecessary little book that they only held out of tradition. Dean, with Seamus following uncertainly at his side, started down the aisle, and slid into the pew with his family.

Seamus watched, feeling suddenly homesick as Dean's mother embraced him in a happy if not slightly restrained hug. She was a beautiful woman, about as tall as Dean's shoulder, with short straight hair that came to her shoulders with that strange stiffness of African hair that had always puzzled Seamus.

Dean's father shook his son's hand, smiling tightly at him. His own hair was short and spotted with white, and a goatee framed his wide mouth. The rest of the family consisted of Dean's sister, a pretty young woman in her twenties, and Dean's grandparents. John, the man who had greeted them at the door, was Dean's oldest brother, as Dean had explained to Seamus on the way to the church.

Dean was unable to ignore Seamus' bright, concerned presence at his side, and he felt oddly out of place in this scene from his childhood. He pulled a carol book from the little shelf on the pew in front of them and held it out for Seamus. The other man took it, flipping through until he found _What Child Is This_.

Seamus' voice had always fit nicely with his own in the past, but amid the voices of his family members, Dean felt disoriented by it. His family, who had always been kind to his friends in the past, seemed to be determinedly ignoring Seamus' existence, and Dean tried to console himself with the fact that at least they hadn't tried to kick them out of the church.

His gaze alighted on the large crucifix hanging at the front. Christ was bound to its wooden beams, his carved face looking up to Heaven in some silent, pleading prayer. Dean felt like a child again, in this place, with these people. He had spent every Christmas of his life in this church, staring up at Christ while his lips formed the carols meant to celebrate not the death of the Saviour, but rather his birth. He'd always thought it strange that the crucified Christ hung before them all year, frozen in his pained moment of sacrifice. Why turn to this, to the death of the Son of God, every Sunday, week after week, year after year? Why did they never lift their voices and their hearts to his birth, or resurrection?

But the wooden Christ was as much a part of this church as the candles, or the stained glass windows. And now here was Seamus, standing beside him, shoulder brushing his own, and suddenly Dean felt like he'd never been here before--the place of his childhood. It was as if his memories had been drastically altered, and all because of one man, one new being that changed everything.

Dean turned back to Jesus, and studied his features again, for what seemed like the first time.

******

"That wasn't so bad."

Dean pressed the gas pedal down as the streetlight changed, and the car pushed forward into the dark intersection. Snow dotted the windshield, melting as it slid down the glass and leaving dark streaks on the dashboard.

Dean shrugged in response to Seamus' comment. "Could've been worse."

"But it still bothered you," Seamus said, matter of factly. He sighed. "I'm sorry. I should've let you come alone this year."

Shaking his head, Dean fought the urge to lean over and touch him, to twine his fingers around Seamus'. "No, I'm glad you're here. They should've met you a long time ago."

Bright lights whizzed by the car window as Dean turned left onto a quieter street that began to head into a neighbourhood of nice, middle-class homes. Christmas decorations hung like jewellerry from roofs and doors, and he could see small, green trees in those windows that hadn't been closed by blinds or drapes.

"This next bit is going to be the tough part," Dean said, talking in order to rationalize the fear that was clawing its way through his stomach. "I told them about you ages ago, but they haven't actually met you yet, so for them you're not real. At least not until now. After tonight they're going to have to accept the facts for what they are; they won't be able to pretend you don't exist anymore."

Seamus nodded, listening carefully more for Dean's sake than his own. He'd heard this speech several times already that evening, and he knew Dean was only repeating it so much in order to calm himself down. "What about John and Lauren? Do they mind?"

"Well, Lauren's fine with it--she's actually looking forward to meeting you. But John... Well, he's not particularly upset, he just won't be able to handle us doing anything even remotely close to touching in his presence," Dean said, a wry smirk twisting his lips upward. "At least neither of them are homophobic or anything. It's just Mom and Dad, and my grandparents I'm worried about."

They reached a two-story house with a large oak tree in the front yard, and Dean stopped the car beside the sidewalk out front. He paused, one hand on the door handle, watching the house. An old Volvo was parked outside, belonging to his sister, and across the street he could see John's truck, buried beneath a thick blanket of snow.

The lights were on inside, and it seemed that they were the last ones to arrive. Dean hadn't taken the long way over by accident. But this couldn't be put off any longer, so he pushed open the car door and stepped out into the still, frozen world beyond.

The snow crunched underfoot, leaving a trail of footprints on the hidden lawn. When they reached the front door, Dean stopped, wondering whether or not he should knock. Finally, he lifted his fist and did so, realizing that this wasn't his home anymore, not since a small apartment near Diagon Alley had replaced it. The door swung open and his mother stood on the other side, looking them over with a strained smile.

She stepped aside, ushering them into the warm, brightly lit house. "Come in, it must be freezing out there. Here, let me take your coats."

The rest of the family had gathered in the kitchen, their voices a comfortable noise that made the house feel more alive. In the living room, six stockings hung on the mantel, an orange fire consuming a charred Yule log below. The Christmas tree stood in front of the window, tall and regal with silver-gold lights and flashing, delicate ornaments twinkling on its boughs. Presents sat beneath it, their cheerful wrapping paper glowing in the firelight.

Dean hugged his mother again, suddenly glad to be back, even if this place wasn't really home anymore. "Merry Christmas, Mum."

"Merry Christmas, honey," she replied, and he grinned, realizing how long it had been since anyone had called him that. With a deep breath he stepped away, placing one hand on Seamus' shoulder. His mother's smile faded a bit.

"Mum, this is Seamus," he said, his voice oddly calm in his own ears. "I told you about him, remember?"

She eyed Seamus coolly. "Yes, I remember you mentioning him."

Seamus smiled, as cheerfully as he could manage. "It's so nice to finally meet you."

She shook his hand briefly, and Dean let out a little sigh of relief. "It's always nice when Dean brings his friends home with him. Won't you come out to the kitchen and have something to drink? Your father made eggnog again, and I baked some cookies earlier..."

They followed her out into the kitchen where everyone else had clustered around the counter and breakfast table, hands wrapped around steaming mugs. Lauren got up from her stool quickly, grinning at Dean as she rushed over to envelop him in a hug.

"Welcome home, Dean!" She was still smiling when she pulled back, and Dean could feel all the time he'd been away like a heavy weight removed from his shoulders.

"It's good to see you again, Lauren."

Her eyes alighted on Seamus with a brightness to rival that of the Irish man's. "And you must be Seamus. I've heard a lot about you."

Seamus shot him a curious look, and Dean fought with himself not to look embarrassed. Apparently it didn't work, he ascertained, from the amused look on Seamus' face. Seamus turned back to Lauren, smiling wryly. "I hope it wasn't _all_ bad."

She laughed and leaned forward to hug him. Seamus looked momentarily surprised, and then a sadness fell over him, making Dean's heart ache. The other man had never spent Christmas away from his own family either, but he'd given that up to come here with Dean for what was going to be a very stressful holiday. Dean promised himself that he would find some way to make it up to Seamus, no matter what he had to do.

While Lauren was talking to Seamus, Dean's father abandoned his traditional eggnog project and wandered over to shake Dean's hand. "Merry Christmas. It's nice to have you home again."

"Thanks, Dad. I'm glad we came."

His father nodded, glancing over at Seamus uncertainly. "So, what does your friend like in his eggnog?"

Dean laughed, ridiculously happy with his father's dry sense of humour. "I don't know actually. This is our first Christmas together. But he's Irish though. You know how they are."

He donned a look of determination. "Right. Got it."

Dean joined Seamus at the table where Lauren, John and John's wife were seated. His grandparents had studiously ignored him, immersed in conversation with his parents, and he tried not to notice the little shard of ice that wrapped itself around his heart painfully. Annoyed, he reminded himself of the special effort his parents were making to be polite at the very least.

"... So we finally decided on the first one, by the park," John was saying. His wife was smiling beside him, her eyes glowing with pride. They'd only been married the previous summer, and the newlywed glow had yet to fade. Dean glanced over at Seamus from the corner of his eye, wondering if they looked anything like that.

"What're you talking about?" he asked. John looked over at him, beaming.

"We finally got a house," he announced. "Took us a long time to decide on anything, but we just signed the papers for this one last week."

He pulled a photograph out of his wife's purse, who rolled her eyes at his lack of respect for her privacy, and handed it across the table for him to see. Dean felt the momentary surprise that always came when he returned to the muggle world, staring at the photograph and expecting it to move. Seamus leaned over, his shoulder brushing Dean's, and Dean could feel him going through the same surprise.

The house was nice--a quaint little one story with dark green shutters and trim, and seemed as though it had risen up from a bed of wildflowers. He could see the aforementioned park stretching off to the left, a small peaceful patch of green grass and a playground set in the new-looking neighbourhood.

"It's lovely," he said, and John laughed.

"It looks like something off a 50's sitcom, but thanks."

Dean handed back the photo, as his father set down two mugs of eggnog for him and Seamus. "When will you be able to move in?"

"A couple of weeks, probably," Kathy, John's wife, answered. "It'll be great for us--it's not too far from my school, and it'll only take John twenty minutes to get to work."

"Which sure as hell beats 40 minutes through traffic," John added. He paused, glanced over at where their parents and grandparents were talking, then turned back to Dean. "So, how has your apartment worked out?"

"It's a little on the small side, but we like it," Dean said, unsure whether or not to continue.

Seamus nodded. "Very convenient, though."

Dean glanced over at him dryly. Of course it would be convenient- a shack in Australia would've been equally convenient, as long as it was hooked up to the Floo Network. And if not that, they had both gotten their Apparating licences after graduating last June.

Although the location of their apartment wasn't bad, anyway--they were only a couple blocks from the Leaky Cauldron, and Seamus had been happy to discover that there was a club only 5 minutes away by cab.

"What about that neighbour of yours you were complaining about?" Lauren prompted. Beside him Seamus sipped at his eggnog and nearly choked.

Ignoring Seamus' coughing, Dean calmly patted him on the back and answered his sister. "The one with the Dobermans?"

Seamus' flushed face darkened considerably.

"He finally gave up trying to get us evicted after Seamus discovered some illegal, ah, stuff, on his property," Dean explained, editing the magical content for the sake of Kathy, who was still ignorant as to what, exactly, her brother in law was.

The real story had been that their neighbour, a Mr. Carl Schuster, was not only homophobic but also mildly racist, and he had done everything in his power to get them kicked out of the apartment complex. Finally Seamus had gotten fed up with him after being chased through the building by one of his dogs, and (in self defence) had turned the animal into a toad (which Dean found to be horribly cliched). So following this, Mr. Schuster had made the mistake of letting Seamus into his apartment to change the dog back (Mr. Schuster was, apparently, a squib, and just as bitter over it as Filch had ever been).

According to Seamus, there had been Dark Arts stuff strewn all over the kitchen table, and after he'd been reported, he'd been forced to go to trial and leave the building. Fortunately, most of the stuff had turned out to be relatively harmless.

The whole ordeal had been frustrating for them both, as they'd never had to put up with much prejudice before leaving Hogwarts, aside from the usual Pureblood beliefs. After being so sheltered for seven years, Mr. Schuster's opinions had come as an unwelcome shock.

Seamus, who had recovered from the eggnog by now, watched Dean's face closely, seeming to follow his thoughts. He cleared his throat. "Lord, that's about the hardest eggnog I've ever had."

Lauren laughed, patting his hand sympathetically. "Sorry, we should've warned you."

With a frown, Dean picked up Seamus' mug and took a cautious sip. The rich, heady flavour of liquor warmed his throat, and he glanced over at his father in surprise. "Wow."

"See?" Seamus said, looking impressed.

Dean grinned at him. "And here I thought you Irish were immune to alcohol, but dear ol' Dad's eggnog proved me wrong."

John nodded knowingly. "Nearly knocked me under the table, last year."

Mrs. Thomas swept out of the kitchen, a large platter of cookies in both hands, and made for the living room. Dean pushed in his chair as he stood, following everyone else out with her.

"You know what that means," Dean's father said, a pitcher of milk in one hand and a stack of glasses in the other. They filed into the living room, where everyone began to take their customary seats around the Christmas tree. Dean felt a little odd, sitting beside Lauren on the end of a couch by the fireplace, with Seamus on his other side. But the nervous disorientation he'd felt at the church had disappeared, leaving a feeling of surrealism in its place.

It was hard to believe that this was happening--that he had come here, as he had done every year, and that Seamus was beside him, a real, warm presence that glowed in the flickering light of the fire. He felt complete. Yes, things were still uncomfortable, and he knew it would be a long time before his parents warmed to Seamus, but right now none of it mattered. He was safe, and warm, and all the people he loved most in the world were gathered here, in this room, with him.

Seamus seemed to have noticed his change in mood, and their gazes met. As always, he felt momentarily surprised by the intense blue of Seamus' eyes, and the strength of the emotions that made them glow all the brighter. Seamus smiled warmly, and Dean allowed himself to forget--for a moment, that there was anyone else in the room--his hand slipped forward and found Seamus', the black and white of their joined fingers beautiful in its contrast. And through their warmth, he could feel the rightness of fitting those palms and fingers together, like two puzzle pieces incomplete without each other.

When his mother passed, offering the platter of cookies, he saw the flickering shadow in her eyes--but then she smiled, and he let himself pretend that she meant it. Once they'd all settled, his father passed around their gifts, and Dean was struck by the sudden realization that, along with Seamus, this was different from the old family tradition, in which they would always open presents on Christmas morning. But this year they couldn't all make it in the morning, and had had to wait until evening--until Dean had arrived.

His father handed him a large box, wrapped in silver paper, and heavier than the others. Dean glanced at him in surprise and saw only quiet reassurance in his eyes. Looking down at the present again, he was startled to read the tag--which said, in his mother's flowing handwriting, _To: Dean and Seamus_.

"That's for you to open tomorrow, when you get home," his father instructed, and Dean followed his gaze over to his grandfather, who was staring fixedly at the fireplace, a stormy expression on his weathered features. He couldn't help but wonder what the present was that it could have upset Grandpa Paul so much, but he was touched by the fact that his parents were willing to risk his grandfather's disapproval because of him.

"Thanks," he said quietly, unsure of what else he should say. Coming home this year was one of the hardest things he'd ever done--almost as difficult as the letter he'd written two years ago explaining who Seamus was. But for all the trouble, all the pain that this relationship had caused, he wouldn't give it up for the world.

Other gifts were passed around, but none weighed so much in his mind as the heavy silver package resting on the coffee table before him. He received books and a jumper from his parents, an old American movie from John that they'd always liked as kids, and a football scarf from Lauren. She'd even gotten a gift for Seamus as well, which had turned out to be a large assortment of chocolates and cocoa mixes; apparently she'd remembered Dean's comment about Seamus' sweet tooth.

But throughout all this, the absence of gifts from his grandparents was hard to ignore, especially when he saw Lauren and John, as well as Kathy, opening theirs. He looked across the room, trying to keep his emotions from showing on his face, and for a moment his eyes met his grandfather's--the familiar dark brown gaze showed guarded disappointment, and beneath it, disgust. The distance between them felt like a yawning void, and he was afraid for a moment that his pain would swallow him. But then his grandfather looked away, back at the leaping flames, and Dean found himself back on the couch again, Seamus' warm fingers wrapped around his own, reminding him what he was doing this for.

The evening progressed in much the same way as every other Christmas of Dean Thomas' life. His father read aloud from the Bible, and then his Grandfather told the story he always told them, about his first Christmas in London, with Grandma Carol, back when Dean's father had only just been born.

"It had been colder that year than any other winter for two decades." His voice, and his words, were as familiar to Dean as the Christmas carols, or the scripture. He closed his eyes, and he could almost imagine that he was a child again, the excitement beginning to die down to a quiet, content sleepiness. "Carol and me, we didn't have much back then; it was just us and your father, and he was just three weeks old. We were new to the city, and we didn't know anybody, didn't have anywhere to go. That first night, on Christmas Eve, we saw London for the first time. It was snowing out, and we were all freezing, but all of the motels within blocks had turned us away.

"Well, your dad was too little to be out in the cold like that, and we were starting to get scared that he'd get sick. So we wandered around, getting ourselves more lost, looking for a place to stay. That's when we found the church. We'd been walking the streets for hours, and we were so cold--my feet were numb, and Grandma Carol's teeth wouldn't stop chattering. But when we stood there, in front of the church, with that beautiful music floating through the air, I felt for sure that this was a miracle. I'd never been the religious type before, and neither was Carol--but for the first time in my life, I prayed, and I really meant it.

"All throughout the service, I couldn't stop feeling like this was something important, that something had changed that night. And d'you know what it was?"

He paused for a moment, eyes staring at the tree now with a faraway, distant look in them. The little moment of quiet hung, still, like an ornament--something beautiful, and delicate.

"That night, God gave me the greatest gift of all. He gave me hope. And when Father Simon let us stay there that night, and in the following weeks helped me find a job and a place to live, I knew that I would never let my family be homeless again. I knew that I'd spend the rest of my life working to repay Him for that miracle, because without hope we have nothing."

His eyes caught Dean's, breaking from tradition in a way that startled him, and left him half-afraid, half-desperate to hear what he would say next, despite the dread wrapping vice-like fingers around his heart.

"I knew I'd spend the rest of my life protecting this family," Grandpa Paul said, and everyone seemed to hang off his every word, stringing the air with their surprise, their anticipation. Paul's eyes hardened, and the fear in Dean's chest washed over him in icy waves. "And I won't let anything tear us apart."

With that, he rose stiffly from his chair, Grandma Carol's eyes wide and pained, following his movements over towards the door. She rose, glancing quickly over at Dean with a face full of so many conflicting emotions that Dean was left staring in confusion after her. She let Grandpa Paul settle her coat about her shoulders, and with an uncertain little smile for everyone else, followed him to the door.

"Goodnight, everyone," Grandpa Paul said. A tired sigh escaped him. "Merry Christmas."

******

That night, Dean lay awake for a long time, staring at the ceiling of his old bedroom. Seamus' warmth against his chest was almost comforting, but even that could not distract him from the thoughts swirling about his mind. After his grandparents had left, a long, awkward pause had followed. Seamus' hand had squeezed his reassuringly, and Lauren had placed her own on his shoulder, eyes shining with sisterly concern; but Dean had been too numb to notice them. His eyes were still locked on the chair where his grandfather had been minutes before, wishing him back, wishing that there were some words, some perfect words he could say that would make everything all right again.

But there wasn't. There was nothing he could say or do that would ever make his grandfather understand. And as painful as that was, Dean knew it was the truth. He'd lost Grandpa Paul the day he tied that letter to his owl's foot and watched it disappear into the horizon, filled with a naive hope that maybe, just maybe they'd understand.

After all, when he looked into the endless blue sky of Seamus' eyes, he'd thought to himself: _What is there to understand?_ There was only that unfathomable brightnes, that sweet, beautiful glow that made him feel like a child. Looking at Seamus was like kneeling down before the Christmas tree, heart pounding and eyes wide with the simple joy and excitement that only Christmas could awake in him. In the blue of Seamus' eyes, he became that eight-year-old boy that had spent hours fishing with his brother, John, at Uncle Phil's farm and had fallen asleep beneath the warm sunlight. He was the child that had curled up in Grandpa Paul's lap, listening for hours to that old, strong voice as it retold the stories from a distant past that he knew by heart.

If there was one thing that Grandpa Paul had taught him, it was that human beings were nothing without hope. Ironically, it had been because of Grandpa Paul that he'd lost his hope, that first time. He had known, even before he wrote that letter, that things would be irreversibly changed between them. But that didn't stop the pain that came when he'd seen Grandpa Paul again last summer, at John and Kathy's wedding.

While things had been strained with the rest of the family, and _no one_ mentioned the letter, his grandfather had refused to speak to him altogether. Looking at him then, he realized for the first time that even though he had known things would change, he had not expected the bond between them to ever break. But it had; whatever love his grandfather had once felt for him, had been shattered, and Dean had been the one to destroy it.

He sighed, eyes drifting around his room. It hadn't changed much since he'd last seen it, the past summer. Most of his more important things--his favourite books, photo albums, sentimental things he'd collected over the years--had already been moved into his apartment, and the room seemed empty without them. The walls were still covered in all the football posters that Seamus wouldn't let him put up in their room, along with some of the toys that he'd never been able to get rid of. They lined his shelves now like forgotten friends, dejected beneath layers of dust.

The bed was small, especially now that he wasn't sleeping in it alone. Hard to believe that only last year he'd still been attending Hogwarts. That last Christmas he had slept here in this bed, wishing with everything in him that Seamus was there with him, sprawled all over Dean like he was the Irish boy's personal pillow. A year ago, when his grandfather still looked at him with pride, and love. It seemed like a lifetime had passed now, and oceans lay between them.

Seamus sighed, murmuring something in his sleep against the skin of Dean's collarbone. Dean smiled sadly, letting his fingers comb gently through the other man's sandy hair, soft and cool against his fingers. The steady rhythm of Seamus' heart against his, of his slow, deep breathing felt like an extension of his own body--Dean knew from experience that he'd never be able to sleep without it again. Seamus was so many things to him--a best friend, and sometimes a brother, an escape, and a haven. Seamus was his partner in crime, and his lover. And he was Dean's hope.

And maybe he'd lost the hope he'd had as a child when he saw his grandfather's disappointment, and shame. But in Seamus he'd found it again--ten times as strong, and all the more precious for it.

******

Dean awoke the next morning to the unpleasant experience of someone's hair tickling his nose. That someone was, of course, Seamus. He was leaning over Dean's face, swaying his head over Dean's. His bright eyes shined in the pale light, and a broad grin spread across his face as his long blond bangs swept over Dean's skin

Rolling his eyes, Dean fought not to laugh at the strange spectacle Seamus made, hovering above him like that, but ended up smiling anyway, in spite of himself. With a look of triumph, Seamus settled his full weight on Dean's chest and leaned in for a deep, lingering kiss.

"Good morning, love," Seamus murmured against his lips, and Dean laughed.

"What's got you in such a good mood?"

Seamus affected his wide-eyed, starving-orphan innocent look. "Me? Why, who wouldn't be happy to wake up next to Seamus Finnigan's number one ranked "Most Shaggable Guy No Longer In Hogwarts"?"

Nodding sagely, Dean rolled them over so that Seamus was pinned beneath him, blond hair like gold in the sunlight against his pillow. "I see. You're just trying to get into my pants, that's all."

Seamus' only reply was a wry grin before he proved that, as usual, he'd already accomplished that goal, and in record time. Rather unfortunately for them, a knock on Dean's door came a few minutes later, and they scrambled to make themselves decent before Dean called out a slightly annoyed, "Come in!"

Lauren poked her head in, taking in their mussed state with apparent amusement. "Not interrupting anything, am I?"

Seamus looked on the verge of pouting. "Not anymore."

"Sorry, but Mum sent me up here to let you know that breakfast is ready," she explained, tugging absently at an earring in her left ear. "John and Kathy are leaving in about an hour, so if you want to see them before they go, you should probably get up now."

"We'll be right down," Dean said, keeping a straight face as Seamus groaned dramatically. Lauren ducked back out again, and they could hear her laughter on the other side of the door. Dean sighed. "Now even my sister thinks I'm a pervert."

"Oh please, she was eighteen once too, y'know," Seamus informed him. He caught the dark pain that flitted over Dean's features, half-hidden beneath his calm exterior. Then his gaze softened, growing more serious, and he lifted one hand to cup Dean's face. "They don't think that about you. I know maybe your grandparents still don't understand, and maybe they never will. But look at your parents and the rest of your family! Look at how hard they're trying to bridge all these gaps between you."

"I know!" Dean retorted, a little more sharply than he'd intended. He saw the hurt in Seamus' face, and quickly reached up to grip Seamus' hand in his. "I'm sorry... But don't you think I can see what they're doing? This is more than I ever could have asked for, and I'm grateful. I am. I just... I can't forget it, Seamus. I can't forget the disgust in his eyes when he looked at me..."

Seamus exhaled slowly, the blue of his eyes clouding over as Dean watched, unable to look away. "It's so hard for you, isn't it? I never really realized how much you were losing until we came here. Back home, when it's just the two of us, it seemed easy to pretend that the rest of the world didn't exist. But there's all these little things, like Mr. Schuster, and then the big ones, like your Grandpa... And it's all so much. I'd give anything to protect you from all that pain, but it seems like it's always me causing it."

A little knot of fear twisted in Dean's chest, and he looked up sharply. "Don't you dare finish that thought, Seamus. I wouldn't go through all of this if I didn't think it was worth it. And you're worth all the pain in the world; more than worth it. I love you, and there's nothing that's ever going to make me change my mind."

Seamus only looked at him for a long moment, but Dean could tell that his words had had an important effect on the other man. Finally, Seamus leaned in, hands seeking out Dean's face to pull him closer as their lips met. All the love and gentleness that Seamus possessed seemed to flow into the kiss, lips moving softly against Dean's in a slow caress. The touch spoke of things that neither of them could ever put into words--in the feel of Seamus' mouth moving with his, Dean could feel and taste and hear the unspoken language that passed between them; it was in the cool stroke of Seamus' fingers over his cheekbones, in the slight curve of Seamus' lithe form beneath his hands, in the taste of his mouth and in the blue of his eyes.

When Seamus spoke to him through these things, Dean could feel, know, _understand_ all the little porcelain intricacies of the other man's soul. He spoke of laughter, and sunshine, and love; but most of all, in Seamus' words there was hope.

Eventually when Seamus pulled away, they sat together, on Dean's bed, in a silence so full of understanding that it seemed to linger in the sunlight streaming in between the blinds, in the warmth of Dean's quilt, and in the touch of their bodies, pressed close together.

"Dean," Seamus breathed, looking more alive than Dean could remember having seen him in a long time, "that was one of the most perfect things you've ever said to me."

Dean smiled, but in his mind his words seemed clumsy and awkward compared to the poetry of Seamus' touch.

******

"It was wonderful seeing you again, Dean, and meeting Seamus," Kathy said, as she and John pulled on their coats by the front door. She held a bag full of gifts in one hand, and wore a bright smile on her face, so that she seemed to practically glow with happiness.

Dean smiled in return. "It was nice seeing you guys, too. Good luck with your new house, I hope everything goes well."

"Thanks," John replied. He grinned. "Hey, maybe we'll enlist your help with the move, huh?"

Kathy smacked his arm, and rolled her eyes good-naturedly. Dean shook his head. "I wouldn't mind helping if you need it. Just call us."

"Sure. Well, goodbye everybody!" John called, and gave Mrs. Thomas a quick hug. "We'll be sure to keep in touch."

"You'd better," Mrs. Thomas warned. She turned to Kathy. "Make sure he calls me more often, will you? Or better yet, call me yourself. We never get to talk much."

Kathy nodded. "Of course. Thanks for having us."

There were a few more goodbyes, and then John and Kathy were gone, and the door was closed, and outside Dean could hear John's truck starting up. He yawned, and turned back to his mother, who was watching them leave through the front window. She sighed and turned back to him.

"Are you boys leaving now, too?"

"Yeah. I wish we could stay longer, but... we really should be going," Dean said. She looked a little sad, and Dean knew that it was from her hate of empty houses; he knew, because he was the same way. He took a deep breath. "Mum? You know, you could always come visit us sometime, if you want..."

There was a moment of silence before she answered, and Dean's heart pounded, half-afraid that she would find some cold, clever way to change the subject. But instead she looked up, caught his eyes, and gave him a small, hesitant smile. "Yes, I... I think I'd like that."

Seamus shuffled into the room then, dressed in jeans and a dark green sweater that actually belonged to Dean and was a little loose on him. He had their duffle bag in one hand, and waved cheerily with the other.

"G'mornin!"

"Good morning, Seamus," Mrs. Thomas replied, smiling at him in the way that she usually did at small children. Dean supposed that this was probably because Seamus gave off an innocent vibe, reminding most people of a child- at least, until they actually got to know him. Seamus stopped beside him, seemingly waiting for some cue from Dean as to what to do next.

"Well, I guess we should really head home now," Dean heard himself say. He stepped forward, hugging his mother. He closed his eyes, remembering last year, when he'd hugged her before returning to Hogwarts again. She smelled familiar, like home and all the things he remembered from growing up; except, now he was grown up, for the most part, and he wasn't returning to school this year. This year, he reminded himself, he was returning home.

His father wandered out from the kitchen, and Dean shook his hand. Mr. Thomas paused, looking serious. "Don't forget to open that gift when you get home."

He nodded; he'd forgotten the present, after last night, but now it came back to him again, and he found himself wondering once more what it was. "I won't."

Mr. Thomas stepped away, back to his normal self. He reached for Seamus' hand, who looked a bit surprised, but took it in his own and shook it. "Thank you for visiting us, Seamus. It was nice to meet you."

"It was nice of you to have me," Seamus said sincerely. He grinned. "I must say, I've never had eggnog quite like yours before."

"And you never will again," Mrs. Thomas added.

Dean felt his hand settle on the doorknob, and pulled the door open. The air outside was cold, but in a fresh, crisp sort of way. Seamus headed out before him, and Dean turned back to smile at his parents one last time. "Goodbye, and Merry Christmas."

******

The apartment was a bit of a mess, since they had a tendency to not clean it very often, and things had been rather busy leading up to Christmas. Dean kicked off his shoes by the door and hung up his coat, grateful for the noise that filled the room when Seamus turned the radio on. Neither of them cared much for a quiet house, and so there was almost always the sound of the radio or telly playing in the background.

Flopping down onto the plush tan couch, Dean sat for a moment, staring out the window and wondering what to do next. He'd had no real reason to leave home so early, other than needing to return the car, which he'd borrowed from a muggle friend. But now that they were here, and he didn't have anywhere to go, or anything to do, Dean was suddenly at a loss as to what to do with himself.

There was a sudden blur of gold and green as Seamus swung over the back of the couch and landed beside him with a bounce. Dean was too used to his behaviour to bother protesting the abuse of their furniture, and since he was feeling a bit tired from not sleeping last night, he leaned over and rested against Seamus' side.

"Deeeaaaannn," Seamus whined, shifting so that Dean's weight was against his chest instead. Dean closed his eyes, preparing to take a nice, much-needed nap when something heavy landed in his lap. Sitting up with an 'oof!' of surprise, Dean blinked to find a silver wrapped package in his lap, the one from his parents. He turned to glance back at Seamus, who was staring at the package like a blue-eyed vulture.

"Well, c'mon!" Seamus urged, poking his shoulder. "Aren't you gonna open it?"

"All right, all right, geez..." Dean trailed off, pulling at the wrapping paper and suddenly feeling just as excited as Seamus was. Beneath the paper was a box, and he lifted the lid off, revealing an object wrapped in crinkled white tissue paper. He brushed it away, pulling an old book with a heavy silver cover out.

Dean stared at the book in his hands in awe, afraid to breathe, or to look away, as though it would disappear. A note slipped out from inside and fluttered down to land against his knee. Seamus picked it up, handing it to him without a word.

"Dean?" Seamus asked after a moment, and Dean put the book down to take the note from him. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah..." he murmured, attention fixed on the little piece of paper with his father's handwriting on it.

"What's it say?"

Dean glanced at Seamus, who was watching him closely, then back at the note, and he began to read. "Dear Dean- I'm sure that it must be evident to you what this is, and why we couldn't give it to you when your grandfather was around. I'm sorry to say that he didn't agree with our decision, but we want you to have this. Because above all else, you're our son, and we love you. And I'm sure we'll learn to love Seamus, as well, because anyone who means this much to you, must be very special indeed. Love, Mom and Dad."

Seamus gasped a little, just a sharp intake of breath, before closing his arms around Dean's waist and pressing a kiss against the back of his neck. Dean felt a little shocked himself; more than a little, really, and was wondering exactly what he was supposed to be feeling right now. But then Seamus gave out a watery laugh from behind him, and he found himself laughing too, and realized that the tightening in his chest was a good thing.

"Seamus, this... this book, it's a family heirloom," he finally managed after a few minutes. "There's a few things that we have, like my great grandmother's wedding dress, that my parents promised to pass down to us, when we... when we got married."

When he got no reply, Dean turned to find a very stunned Seamus, who was blinking quite rapidly, and couldn't help the grin that settled on his features.

"M-married?" Seamus squeaked.

"Well, I guess they think that guys don't actually do the whole ceremony thing," Dean clarified. He raised a brow. "You weren't planning on leaving sometime soon, were you?"

"Umm, no, I just, well, hadn't, erm, thought about it, I guess," Seamus stuttered. He gave a little laugh. "Aw, it's not like I hadn't planned on stayin' with you anyway, it's just, well, y'know... Marriage sounds so... official, and grown up and all, and sometimes I feel like we're still just kids and next year we'll be right back at Hogwarts again."

Dean nodded. "I know. And I don't think that's really why they gave it to us now. I think this was really more my parents way of saying that we have their approval."

With a smile so bright it was like the sun itself, Seamus leaned over and kissed him. "I'm glad. You, Dean Thomas, deserve to be happy, and I know that you just wouldn't be the same without them. Your family, I mean."

"Seamus..." Dean trailed off. "I think that now, you are my family. This is their approval. That means that you are now a part of the family, too, and you've always been part of _my_ family. If that makes any sense."

"It makes perfect sense," Seamus reassured him. He glanced down at the large book, a family album. "Thank you. Next year, we're going to Ireland though." He smirked. "So you can meet the in-laws."

Dean laughed. "I think I'd like that."

A warm quiet fell over them, the radio playing softly in the background, and even fainter the sounds of the city filtering in from outside. The sunlight from the window poured down on the album, making the silver cover flash brilliantly and leave little spots dancing in Dean's eyes. He stroked the front absently, tracing the design of metal flowers etched into the silver, and a little smile spread across his face. Things still weren't perfect with his grandfather, and maybe they never would be.

But one look in Seamus' eyes, and at the brilliant silver book resting in his lap, and he remembered that men were nothing without hope.

**Author's Note:**

> Dum spiro, spero. (Latin: While I breathe, I hope.)


End file.
